CPTSD: “My Lifelong Parasites”

The first time I fully understood the effects of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was while going through my own therapy diagnosis. I remember how validated I felt knowing why I responded to the world with such high anxiety and hypervigilance. Even as I have worked hard on my own healing journey, I still experience moments nearly every day that remind me of the seventeen years of abuse I endured and how I was manipulated into thinking I could not trust my judgment.

The idea of CPTSD being personified as parasites came from the internal feeling that these core memories and negative beliefs from my trauma are so deeply rooted in me that it feels as if they permanently attached to me. This disorder is deeply frustrating because it is not something I was born with; it was imposed on me by the choices of another person, and its effects will last my whole life. As Bessel van der Kolk’s book title proclaims The Body Keeps the Score. (I write all this as I hear the back-up alarm beeping at the construction site outside my apartment window and note that today’s date would have been my sixteenth wedding anniversary.)

I have learned that I cannot escape the symptoms of repeated trauma, but there is a fierce kind of healing that helps the symptoms settle and the negative cognitions take up less space in my mind. I continue to find healing in reclaiming the ability to trust and love again, healing in surrounding myself with those who honor honesty and loyalty, healing in affirming my own worth, and in courageously trusting my judgment, no matter what the past tried to convince me otherwise.

This is what living with CPTSD feels like to me.

Sincerely,
Vera Lynn

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“My Lifelong Parasites” by Vera Lynn

You may not remember, but my body remembers the exact dates and times the parasites found me. Without my consent, nearly every month bears the imprint of your deceit, as the parasites burrow deep, breeding in the wounds left by your abuse and betrayal.

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I try to piece together fragmented memories. The parasites torment my mind, feeding on the doubt you planted when you told me I could not trust my judgment the first morning after our honeymoon.

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I see the back window of the coffee shop where years ago I saw you naked with another woman. The parasites feed on the flash of the memory as I relive the image of you shielding her body instead of running to me in remorse.

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I drive by the hardware store where you claimed to be. The parasites swell and gorge themselves as I recall each place you swore you were, while your location showed you in a stranger’s home. 

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I hear the slow, pulsating tone of a vehicle’s back-up alarm. The parasites stir at the sound, commanding my body to brace for the moment you would walk through the door drunk before dinner. 

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I see someone with the same hair color as the strand I found in our shower. The parasites alert my body to scan for signs of all the possible infidelities that happened when you said you were mine.

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I hear the names Holly, Jenny, and Ellie. The parasites secrete their poison, flooding my mind with the photos and texts that made me question my own reality. 

You may not remember, but my body remembers every time I see a fire emoji or hear the word “gorgeous.” The parasites inject their lies into my bloodstream, telling me I was never enough while you praised other women’s bodies. 

You may have forgotten, but I have not. These parasites born of your selfishness live in me still, breathing your memories into my mind with every sensation that reminds me of you. They may never die, but each day I learn to starve them a little more, so I may remember myself without remembering you.